


10 Things I Hate About You, Hobbit

by daleked



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: 10 Things I Hate About You AU, Multi, Multichapter, Set in Middle-Earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleked/pseuds/daleked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin, son of Thráin II, was widely known throughout the kingdom as a prickly recluse of a prince. After reducing a hobbit ambassador to tears and nearly ruining diplomatic ties between the elves and dwarrows, King Thráin decides to send him where he can't possibly cause any more trouble: the Shire. </p><p>Of course, there's the bit where no one wants to court him while everyone wants Dwalin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't got an excuse for this. It all started with me wondering about a 10 Things I Hate About You bagginshield AU on my tumblr and receiving a rather lukewarm response. Undeterred, I sought the opinion of dear Charissa and she encouraged me to do it. This is for you.

Thráin was not in a good mood. It was a fine party, to be sure, celebrating the successful forging of good relations with yet another town of men. What irked him was the fact that his son, Thorin Oakenshield, was remiss in his duties as the prince to put in an appearance at the festivities. Tongues were beginning to wag amongst humans, who surely had nothing better to do. That Thorin was a reclusive hermit, disfigured, malformed somehow, that hid from public eye... How shameful that the prince himself did not appear! What seemed especially odd was that the Prince's Guard, Dwalin, was present at the celebrations and both humans and dwarrows alike vied for his attention, completely oblivious to the fact that the prince was not present. The newly-promoted Junior Scribe, recently risen in rank and sent over from Ered Luin to serve the King under the Mountain, cleared his throat. It was his first day on the job and he was a polite, well-mannered dwarf, keeping his eyes only on his parchment with feather always at the ready.

"This is becoming a habit," Thráin observed quietly to the Junior Scribe. "My heir often misses out on these, and as a result he posseses the social grace of a Mûmak. What should I do?"

"Speak to him, Your Highness," the Junior Scribe suggested, and Thráin agreed. He stood up and the merry music slowed, guests pausing in their dances to turn around and look at him in surprise.

"I am to retire for the night, as I wish to take my rest. Carry on," and the music started up again. As they walked down the hall, ladies turned to curtsy as well as men and dwarrows to bow. Dwalin shrugged off his crowd of admirers to take his place by the King's side. Thráin missed the appraising glance the Junior Scribe shot Dwalin and the slight blush that followed, his own gaze trained on the heavy doors that led out of the hall. He left the hall and turned to one of the corridors down the west side of the main room, leading to the part of the palace that housed the bedrooms. However, Thráin went to his son's bedroom instead of his own and threw the doors open.

Thorin was studying by candlelight, thumbing through one of the ancient tomes on the art of war hammers. He jerked up when Thráin entered, eyes wide with surprise.

"Father-"

"Thorin Durin, son of mine," Thráin boomed. "This is not the first night you have set tongues a-wagging with your continuous refusal to attend festivities."

"It's just a party," Thorin replied, looking mutinous as he shut his book and stood up.

"The celebration was to cement the good relations between Erebor and one of the trading towns!"

"The men just wanted a reason to feast at someone else's expense!" Thorin protested. He could see the Junior Scribe looking obediently at the floor, feather quivering in his grip. Thráin swelled with anger.

"And the gossip of how my son's own guard is more popular than he is! I will not take this a moment longer. You have been commiting social crime one after the other. Yesterday, you sent one of the hobbit ambassadors to his room in tears, and let us not mention two weeks ago when you decided to insult King Thranduil himself and call his only son a whelp! His successor, Thorin! And lest you forget, let me impress upon you the fact that you have had no suitors since you came of age, unlike Dwalin here! This can only be attributed to your shrewish tendencies, Thorin! Where are my heirs to come from? Your sister has done a fine job with Fíli and Kíli, but what about you? The shame upon the Durin line!" Thorin scrunched up his face in anger as he did a long time ago as a dwarfling, and folded his arms before standing up straighter.

"What am I to do then, Father? I have naught to say to your tirade. It is true that Dwalin is more popular, but what of it? The hobbit emissary was a foolish one, these halflings are of no political use to our kingdom, and Thranduil, even less so." Thráin deflated slightly, and motioned for the scribe to come in closer.

"There was once, earlier in generations, my father said there was a prince whose temperament was foul and moodier than a mare in heat. The problem was fixed with a marriage." Thorin groaned at this declaration and backed away, pacing around the room.

"Father, this is not the time for an arranged marriage. The days have long gone of such affairs."

"All right, then. But I will be sending you with the hobbit diplomat Tolman Hlothran back to the Shire to experience life as they do, and that is your punishment for undermining his town's importance. Dwalin will go with you thus, and," Thráin glanced around, eyes landing on the scribe. "You, what is your name?"

"Ori, your Highness," the Junior Scribe said smoothly. Thráin hummed and turned back to Thorin. "And this scribe shall accompany you on your journey to the Shire and report back to me, should there be any problems. I will arrange for our own representative in the Shire to have the papers done and ready for lodging and food. You will leave within the week." Thorin looked outraged at his, tensing his body and clutching at his sword in between his father's words.

"Father, I must protest. This is an unfair burden to myself as well as my company." Thráin turned to leave, smirking as a thought occured to him.

"Thorin, my flesh and blood, this burden will be shared amongst those you hold dear. I have chosen Dwalin, your own Royal Guard. As the bell of truth rings in the words my own father has passed down to me of the fable of the foul-tempered dwarf, I shall give this order. None may court Dwalin unless there is one to court you first." The expressions on both dwarrows' faces were a sight to behold, and Thráin held in his chuckles as he ordered the Junior Scribe to note that down and send word through the lands of Thorin's deployment to the Shire as an envoy, as well as the conditions that followed. Thráin signed the declaration and bid his son goodnight, heading for his own chambers. Thráin hoped that the calm and peacefulness of the Shire would influence Thorin, and Mahal knew that there was nothing more social than a hobbit. Thorin would be schooled in the ways of society in a year. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also note: Dwalin's still got his mohawk in this fic. Totally rad.

 

 

"You will have more time in the Shire for your books without your father's well-meaning scoldings," Dwalin said as he and Thorin strapped packs to the ponies. The journey to the Shire was not going to be a tough one as the trade routes were well-established, but Thráin had insisted on travelling furs for the three of them, thick and heavy and altogether more suited to a winter than a fine misty spring. Thorin grunted as he heaved his pack of books (wadded up in cloth and heavier than they had any right to be) onto the wagon and secured them with leather straps. The horses hitched to the wagon tossed their heads impatiently, stamping their feet.

"Even so, I am sorry to have gotten you into this as well, old friend. Do you require time for your farewells?" Dwalin shook his head and tied the last of his bags up. Thráin had originally insisted on a large group of guards for them but had relented in the end, allowing them to travel by themselves.

"I have bid my brother goodbye and he knows I've longed for a change of scenery recently. He is glad for the opportunity," Dwalin answered serenely, looking around. "Where is the scribe?"  

"Flapping towards us with his papers," Thorin murmured dismissively. Ori, indeed, was coming down to where the two of them stood, loose sheafs of paper fluttering. Despite the fact that the dwarf was well-seated on his pony, it was plain to see that he had not been on a journey before. Dwalin grumbled as Ori dismounted and promptly fell over, knees shaky. 

"Sorry, I'm not quite used to this yet. When I came to Erebor I was sitting on the top of a large haystack a farmer was wheeling in. Ponies are rather daunting." Thorin snorted at that and turned to him. 

"Well, Ori, since you will be journeying with us, what say you on the travel formation?"

"Ah, um..." Ori stuttered. Typical scribe, Thorin thought. They were confident when hidden behind books and papers but fumbled when it came to real life. The obvious parallels had not yet hit him when Dwalin decided to, slapping Thorin heartily on the back. 

"Come, Thorin, do not tease the lad so. We will ride as we have always done. I wish to leave before sunset and be at least midway through the pass by tonight, for my stomach is already growling." Thorin shook his head and smiled slightly at that, pulling an apple out of his pocket and offering it to his pony. Ori looked nervously at Dwalin before reaching into his bag and revealing a paper packet, unwrapping it to show stale ham sandwiches, the tough bread studded with oily black olives.

“Mister Dwalin, you could have these first if you want. I ate earlier.” Dwalin accepted the food eagerly and ate, noting the pink flush that spread across the scribe’s cheeks when their fingers brushed. It was a fetching look on him, Dwalin mused. Not many would give up their food to someone who had barely spoken a word to them. 

“Thank you, er, Ori. Just Dwalin is fine. If you want, you may sit in the wagon. Just let me load up your pony and hitch it to the back to make space for you.” Ori smiled brightly at that, fiddling with the leather strap that bound his books together.

“That would be very nice, thank you.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dwalin could see Thorin alternating between glowering at the both of them and trying to peek at Ori’s pack of tomes. Hah, the Prince was a hard shell on the inside and soft on the inside, and with their mutual love of books they could be fast friends. Dwalin tied the pony to the back of the wagon and took his place on the front, holding the reins to the horses and waiting for Ori to settle down in the back.

“Ah. It is quite comfortable here.” Ori’s voice was muffled by the numerous objects around him. The wagon was piled high with gifts for the hobbits, such as luxurious furs and semi-precious stones and red gold leaf as well as silver, the kind that most dwarrows scoffed at but the hobbits seemed to love. Gilding was not seen as a proper art to dwarrows, for what was the point of gilding to disguise another metal's true properties? It was deceitful. However, the hobbits took payment in the form of gold leaf to coat their cheap trinkets with and Thráin was more than happy to provide them with that. 

"We will be setting out now, Dwarfling." Dwalin called back, and received a faint hum in response. He clicked loudly twice and ordered 'trot!' in Westron, the horses clopping forward immediately. The journey had begun. 

+ 

"Drat," came a voice. "Drat. Accursed dratitude and pissing orcs."

"Mister Bofur?" The housekeeper asked meekly, peeking in at the doorway to Bofur's study. "Is everything all right?"

"I've got an announcement to make at the dance later on," Bofur said reluctantly, face red at having been caught swearing by his elderly cleaner. "Do carry on, Mrs. Cotton. I'll be right with you at breakfast." 

"Second breakfast, dearie," Mrs. Cotton said sternly. "You missed first breakfast." She waddled away proudly, the tempting smell of crispy bacon and toast and soft-boiled eggs with runny yolks wafting in from the kitchen. He loved Mrs. Cotton dearly, but she was always a little too preoccupied with feeding him up. In a way, it was the best hobbit hospitality there was. Bombur had fallen in with the locals immediately, cheerfully whistling and fixing dishes with the best of them. Even little Primula, precocious to a fault and wary of strangers, had declared Bombur 'a hobbit disguised as a dwarf'. Bifur had started carving again, whittling wooden figurines for the wee hobbitlings to bash against each other. Distressed hobbit mothers often found siblings attempting bodily harm on each other with one of Bifur's sturdy sculptures as a weapon. And Bifur started smiling again.

Bofur was infinitely thankful to the king for sending him here to the Shire as an ambassador, and even more grateful to Balin for recommending him for this post. He was but a lowly miner before this assignment, but he guessed Balin had grown to like him during the inspections he did of the mine Bofur worked in over the years.

" _You are a good dwarf_ ," Bifur had signed the day Bofur ran home with the news of their relocation. " _Cheerful and hardworking and loyal. I am proud of you and Ma would be as well if she were here, bless her soul._ "

Bofur, however, would give his right arm to have someone run up to him and shout 'fool's day!' in his face. The Crown Prince himself was coming to the Shire, of all places. Bofur was to get him a nice place to live and integrate him into hobbit society without any hiccups. There was a distinct undercurrent of pleading in the letter from Balin, but Bofur tried to ignore that.

A nice place to live. From what Bofur remembered of the Prince, the best he could recommend was the bottom of a well with the lid shut firmly. Never before had Erebor seen such gruffness, much less the Shire. The hobbits were going to alternate between being mortally offended and confused. 

Bofur thudded his head against the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the amount of love I've gotten so far! I will try my best to reply to all of your comments. Meanwhile, I take the occasional prompt over at my [tumblr](http://thessaliad.tumblr.com). I spend a lot of time wondering aloud on AUs on it, so feel free to drop by for cut scenes that may not be posted here.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought of this.


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